


neon lagoon

by englishsummerrain



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Donghyuck is in a band, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Translation Available, and renjun is a competitive pole dancer, now in vietnamese!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 18:40:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20728928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englishsummerrain/pseuds/englishsummerrain
Summary: He can’t see the night sky, his view blocked by laundry lines strung between windows, but he can see Renjun, his eyes filled with sparks, cheeks flushed high with redness, and Donghyuck doesn’t care about anything else.





	neon lagoon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smallchittaphon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallchittaphon/gifts).

> a little visual inspiration for [renjun](https://i.imgur.com/Wjjduii.jpg) and [donghyuck](https://i.imgur.com/tEoiaQr.jpg)'s styles :]
> 
> hope you enjoy <3
> 
> This fic has also now been translated into [Vietnamese](https://www.wattpad.com/story/228384184-vtrans-hyuckren-neon-lagoon)! Thank you so much to zoom06 <3

  


Donghyuck lives under the stage lights, microphone in hand, sweat slick fringe falling into his eyes, the whole world on fire where the spotlights scatter across the scrum of the crowd. There’s a break in the middle of the song, a second where the music drops out. Jeno spins to center stage for his solo, and Donghyuck goes to take a drink of water, fumbles with the cap and looks up. It’s like lightning, like a storm crashing overhead, like — 

Renjun’s eyes shine. It’s like what should just be another face in the crowd, what should just be another person he’ll forget — Donghyuck instead feels something kick in his belly. A smirk, sloping edges of his lips and Donghyuck has to know. 

He plucks Renjun out like a carefully picked flower, finds him after they’ve stumbled off stage and cracks a beer with him. Renjun’s feet barely touch the bottom of the stool and he constantly flips his coaster between his fingers, constantly looks at Donghyuck like he’s hiding a thousand secrets he will never be privy to. He’s dry, sharp, his words crackling with an electricity that sets the air thick with the smell of weed and spilled beer alight. 

Renjun kisses him amongst the bodies on the dance floor, winds his hands under his denim jacket, grasps at the tattered fabric of his shirt. Renjun kisses him and he tastes like alcohol, tastes like salt, drinks him in like it’s his last night on Earth, reckless and burning. He presses their bodies together, sways in time with the music, the heat radiating off his skin positively stellar.

Jaemin runs his hand on the small of Donghyuck’s back when he passes by, tilts his head when Donghyuck looks away from Renjun to meet his eyes. Gives him a look that Donghyuck will later dissect, later realise Jaemin knew something before he did — dumb as a brick most days of the week and yet, when he least expects it, strangely perceptive.

“Busy?” Jaemin asks.

“Sure.” It’s Renjun who answers — before Donghyuck can — voice nonchalant, like he wasn’t panting against Donghyuck’s lips a minute ago. Jaemin appraises him, gaze lingering on the strip of his stomach exposed by the unbuttoned bottom of his shirt, then winks. Approval. Unneeded.

“Have fun, then.” 

Renjun pulls Donghyuck back into his orbit and Donghyuck’s head spins, spins with the velocity they move around each other. They fade into the shadows, into the back of the venue, the music of the next band thrumming in their veins. The singer has brilliant blue hair, the colour of the ocean on a summer’s day, and he’s spinning around the stage, barely able to contain the energy surging through the room. It spurs Donghyuck on, and he pushes Renjun against the wall, pins him with his body, with his thigh between his legs, kisses him open mouthed.

Donghyuck is brilliant, burning hot, but Renjun is something more. Renjun feels like he would destroy entire cities, moves with such reckless abandon — like he would destroy Donghyuck if he gave him the chance, and maybe this is what draws Donghyuck to him. Like a moth to a candle flame, Renjun so utterly irresistible he would see himself burn up to drink in his brilliance.

He sucks him off in the alley, the smell of oil and diesel thick in his nose, Renjun’s hands fisted in his hair. The back door of the restaurant next door bangs shut and Renjun comes down his throat, gasping and desperate. Donghyuck swallows and stares up at him through his lashes. He can’t see the night sky, his view blocked by laundry lines strung between windows, but he can see Renjun, his eyes filled with sparks, cheeks flushed high with redness, and Donghyuck doesn’t care about anything else. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Every good relationship should start with a back-alley blowjob,” Donghyuck says. Jaemin sneers at him over the top of his drumkit.

“God, you’re so fucking classy.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It’s less classy and more born from the desperation that surrounds you at the start of a relationship, from the lust that hangs off your every word and drips into your bones. A desire to discover every centimeter of someone, to work out how they tick and find where you can tunnel into them, where you can press your fingers against their skin to make them come undone. He wants to learn how to take him apart — and so delicately put him together. To _ know _ Renjun — intimately — and to understand him. 

And how else does he begin to understand him but to push at his limits, to bend him and twist him, to work out just how far he can take it — or, truthfully, how far Renjun can take him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Renjun becomes a familiar sight in the crowd, a familiar sight on his couch, or at dinner, or amongst their outings, laughter mingling with Donghyuck’s when Jaemin pulls Jeno into a headlock and forces him to buy the next round of drinks. He becomes a familiar presence, entwines himself with Donghyuck, occupies the empty spaces between his heart and his lungs, makes himself a home.

Sometimes they play this game, where Donghyuck pretends he's a stranger, where he picks him out and they fuck like it's the first time again, like they can't get enough of each other, Renjun snarling for him to break him, for him to go faster, harder. He leaves bright bruises on Renjun's skin, leaves the shape of his mouth between his shoulder blades, against his neck, tugs on his hair and runs his thumb over the head of his cock, jerks him until he comes in stuttering gasps.

Renjun, too, is someone who lives to be on the stage. He's beautiful, dances in shorts that show off the expanse of his thighs, form fitting sleeveless shirt so thin the dark circle of his nipples show when he arcs his body around the line of the pole. Whip thin and thrumming with energy, potential coiled in his limbs like a lion waiting to strike.

For Renjun, dancing is an art, a way of life, how he expresses his innermost thoughts without having to open his mouth. When he's on the pole he's someone else, he's flying, muscles rippling. A leg in the air like a signpost to heaven as he twirls endlessly, a perfect spinning top, the arc of the galaxy in the sky. He meets Donghyuck's eyes and smiles, and it’s gold, hanging in the air, it’s Renjun, leaving stardust in his trail, art in motion with every spring, every fist over fist, every bulge of his biceps as he launches himself higher. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Plus, being able to tell Jaemin that his boyfriend is a competitive pole dancer is kind of delightful. Donghyuck can't help but feel a little smug.

Jaemin rolls his eyes and looks like he's calculating the best place to shove his drumstick into.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The headboard of Donghyuck’s bed thumps against the wall every time his hips hit Renjun’s ass, every time he pushes him up the mattress. Sheets bunched in his hands, streetlights on the bare skin of his back where Donghyuck shoves his shirt up. They don't pull the curtains properly — one of the rails is broken.

"You like it when they watch me fuck you?" Donghyuck asks. Renjun moans, face pressed into the pillow. "Do you like it when they know you're mine?"

“Yes,” Renjun says, and he quivers and shakes, bucks into Donghyuck's hand. His tongue is heavy in his mouth, reply thick. "They're jealous."

"Jealous that I get you all to myself, Renjun."

"Only for you," Renjun gasps. "Only for you."

It's always only for him. Renjun is only for him, only for him to know like this. The way he bows and curves, the way his thighs shake when Donghyuck edges him, the way he _ begs _for Donghyuck, like he's dying of thirst and Donghyuck is the oasis.

Donghyuck leans against the door frame and watches Renjun dab the sweat from his neck while he waits for the shower to heat up. There's a fresh collection of bruises added to his papery skin, and Donghyuck stares, Renjun unashamed, even when his body is so used and spent. 

Renjun steps into the shower and Donghyuck sits on the edge of the bath and draws hearts in the dust lingering in the tub. 

“How are you holding up?” Renjun asks, over the torrent of water falling into the plastic bottom of the shower.

“I’m fine,” Donghyuck says.

“Just fine?”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Just showing that I care about more than your dick,” Renjun says, laughing. He’s nothing more than a blur through the filter of the moisture on the glass. “How’s class?”

Donghyuck snorts. He’s a year into his Masters of Dance Studies. Renjun almost makes him wish he’d picked pole dancing for his thesis, or even something about Joseonjok, instead of mid Joseon traditional Korean dance. “It’s fine. I forgot to tell you, those textbooks _ finally _arrived from my Mum.”

“Are they useful?”

The problem with his thesis subject is that half the resources he needs are in Korean, all of the books nigh unobtainable anywhere outside of the country itself. His mother has already sent three packages from Seoul to him, and he knows he’s nowhere near the end of it. 

“I think so. But god, reading anything academic in Korean is miserable.” 

“Right? Tell me about it,” Renjun laughs. He drops the shampoo bottle and lets out a muffled curse. “I’ve never been good at it. I can’t even imagine how it is with all that clinical wankery.”

“It’s hell, Renjun.” 

Renjun works his hair into a lather, humming under his breath. It takes him a second to reply. “You’re still keeping at it though.”

“Of course.” 

“See, that’s something to be proud of.” 

His hair is full of suds, and he wipes a window on the glass to blow a kiss at Donghyuck. Donghyuck’s stomach does a flip as he returns it, smiling. Renjun turns away to wash the shampoo from his hair, and Donghyuck writes Renjun’s name inside a dusty heart. When Renjun turns back he smudges it away with the flat of his palm.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"We should get you on the stage at one of the clubs," Donghyuck says. He pops the cap off his bottle of beer, does the same to Renjuns and passes it over the table. Renjun raises it in a mock toast and takes a long swig. 

One of the clubs. Probably Glow if he’s to be honest — a hole in the ground something between a swingers venue and a dungeon, mostly where Donghyuck went to shoot the shit with Jaemin and Jeno to the backdrop of a crop on a moaning sub’s bare ass. It was always a bit of a show, but Donghyuck had never taken part. Had never wanted to. With Renjun in the mix he’d been tempted, but that was a conversation they’d barely had, and Donghyuck was unsure if Renjun wanted to take it further. Donghyuck wasn’t even sure if _ he _ wanted to take it further. 

"Yeah?" Renjun asks. He has sunglasses pushed up into his mess of honey blonde hair, the roots coming through like dark clouds over a golden sunset. "What do you mean?"

"They have a pole, you know?"

"You want to show me off?" Renjun says, grinning. 

Donghyuck worries that sometimes he might be too predictable.

"Of course," he says.

He finds Renjun insatiable, defiant. He’s someone who wants the world to know who he is, wants the world to know who he loves, wants them to seethe with jealousy at the fact that Donghyuck is oh so his. And Donghyuck is, he really is. 

Whenever Renjun stands on a stage, whenever he moves, launches himself and grabs onto the pole to haul himself skyward, aligns his body in a perfect curve like an artful brush stroke — when all eyes are on him — that’s when Donghyuck feels fire in his chest. That’s when Donghyuck burns with pride, because he has what no-one else can have.

He has Renjun.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Donghyuck fucks him in the club bathroom, after Renjun had showed the world what they were missing. Of course, when someone has enough strength to hold themselves up by a single curled leg — well.

Renjun’s legs wrapped around his waist, holding on for dear life as Donghyuck fucks into him. He has to hold his head up to stop it from banging against the wall as Renjun gasps and whines, as he begs for more. Donghyuck bends him over the sink, and Renjun looks so beautiful in the mirror, streaks of grime cutting the sharp line of his cheek like battle scars. He gasps with each stroke, mouth hanging open and begging to be fucked. When he shuts his eyes Donghyuck tells him to open then — tells him to watch himself. His irises are blood red in the neon lighting and they follow his reflection, follow Donghyuck’s hand where it covers his cheek, where his fingers rest on the pillow of his bottom lip.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Donghyuck says, and Renjun gasps, palm flying out to brace himself against the mirror.

“Yeah?” Renjun says. Someone opens the door, curses, walks back out. Donghyuck laughs, and Renjun whines, head falling forward before he catches himself and meets Donghyuck’s eyes in his reflection.

Donghyuck leans in and presses his lips to Renjun’s neck, kisses up to whisper into his ear — “You look the prettiest like this.” 

“You’re so vain,” Renjun says, his laughter coming thin. “I’m not the prettiest with your dick in my ass, Donghyuck.”

“You do look good though,” Donghyuck says, fucking into him and laughing when Renjun’s fingers curl against the glass.

“I do, I do,” Renjun gasps. “But not the prettiest.”

“When, then?”

“When I dance. When I — fuck, Donghyuck.”

“When you fuck?”

Renjun doesn’t reply, just moans, head falling forward. 

Donghyuck spills inside of him, jerks him to release, cleans him up with wet wipes and too many paper towels. He kisses him against the door and against the wall, winds Renjun’s arm around his shoulders to support his wobbly legs. Renjun is fucked out and weak, seems to collapse on himself, but he still stands as tall as he can, still radiating pride. Always proud, even spent and empty. He’s so fucking beautiful that Donghyuck can’t help but stare at him, marvel at everything he does. He doesn’t look away when Renjun catches him staring, and Renjun just smiles, not smug, but fond, something precious that blooms within him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Donghyuck’s things begin to build up in Renjun’s apartment. A toothbrush on the mantle. His hoodie, slung over the back of Renjun’s computer chair. His camera bag, more than once, nesting in the pastel blankets at the end of Renjun’s mattress. Renjun leafs through his textbooks, calls Donghyuck over to translate words he doesn’t quite understand, curls up at his feet like an oversized cat. He thrashes Donghyuck’s ass in Smash, pins him down to the couch and kisses him, laughter so sweet on his lips. 

Donghyuck forgets his sketchbook on the coffee table and has to drop by in the early morning to pick it up before he heads into the city. He lets himself in with the spare key and finds Renjun, for once, isn’t asleep. He’s sitting at the table with a mug of coffee beside him, Donghyuck’s sketches open in front of him. The tips of his fingers barely stick out of the end of the sleeves of the hoodie he’s wearing — that belongs to Donghyuck too — and his hair is mussed, sticking up at odd ends.

“Do you think we should move in?” Donghyuck asks. Renjun looks up from the page he’s staring at — one of himself, stretched out across the couch, face not yet drawn, Switch in his hands, feet crossed at the ankles.

“I’m sorry?”

Donghyuck doesn’t know why he says it. He doesn’t know if it’s a good idea, if it’s wise. Donghyuck doesn’t know much, he realises. Much beyond narrow areas of art, anyway, swathes of dance theory, of how music works and how to put his heart to a beat. He knows how to stop Jaemin from murdering Chenle with a drumstick, how to make someone with a broken heart smile. And he knows Renjun, of course. His depths and his shallows, the way the warmth leaks out of his mouth when they get late night takeout, the way he smiles when he’s shy but proud, the way he glows when he’s slick with sweat, when he pulls a routine off perfectly. 

“Nevermind,” Donghyuck says. He thinks he’s gone too far, exposed too much of himself, and he folds back on the question. “I need my sketchbook.”

Renjun plants a finger on the page, runs it along where Donghyuck has reduced the shape of his body to simple lines. “Do you think we should?” he asks. He looks up. “Move in together? All your stuff is here, anyway.” 

Donghyuck’s heart hitches in his throat. Renjun smiles, cocks his head. The steam curls from his mug, drifting into the dull light streaming in through the tiny kitchen window. “You know, you do have good ideas,” Renjun says. He closes Donghyuck’s sketchbook and stands, the hem of his hoodie falling down over his thighs. He rubs at the corner of his eye, voice sleepy and low. “I could get used to waking up to you in the morning.”

“Yeah?” Donghyuck asks. The charm on his phone case starts to rattle, betraying the shaking of his hand, and he slides it into his pocket. Renjun’s still smiling at him, his small frame drowning in the depths of Donghyuck’s sweater, glasses smudged with condensation, Donghyuck’s sketchbook clutched against his chest and — 

“Yeah.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> this was less nsfw than intended but what can you do, heh.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/dongrenle)


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